


What You Are and What You Choose to Be

by Speary



Series: Season 11 Coda Fics [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 11x2, Canon Compliant, Destiel - Freeform, Episode s11e2, M/M, POV Castiel, Pre-Relationship, Unspoken Destiel, coda fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:06:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speary/pseuds/Speary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is fighting the curse. They asked him who he was, what he was, and when he answered he was sure. "I am Castiel, an angel of the Lord." The closer he gets to the bunker though the more he begins to doubt his response.  Despite that, he drags himself across miles as the curse tears at him. Dean's worry and longing are there too, pulling him home.</p><p>This is a coda fic for 11x2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Are and What You Choose to Be

**Author's Note:**

> I've opted to use the "They/Them/Their" pronouns for Hannah.

Moving had been an effort. He had pulled on the trenchcoat and tie only to cover the blood a little, to keep from drawing too much attention. Claire had said that the tie helped, that he looked better with it. Once it was on, he knew that it wasn’t doing a thing to cover his appearance. 

He felt the rage like the tearing of sinews and the cracking of bones. He could feel it burning, burning, burning through him. He pushed it back, squeezed his eyes shut and moved from the warehouse to the outside. It was darkest night, no moon to guide him, but he knew where he was going. He knew like one knows home and the pull of it.

The bus depot was empty, and the bus that stood waiting in the lot had only a few passengers on board. He worried for a moment that he would lose control of himself, but he also felt no strength for action. He had managed to obtain a ticket. The ticket seller had questioned his appearance. “Bar fight.” Cas did not elaborate. Just those two words were effort enough. As it was they came forth with grit past clenched teeth.

“Wow, wonder what the other guy looked like,” was the response he got. The ticket was passed to him, and he made his way to the bus. The area around the bus was dark and concealed some of his look a bit more. He handed off the ticket and stumbled all the way to the back. He laid across the two seats and pressed his face into the strange and somewhat scratchy fabric of the seat.  _I should not be going to them. I should not be going to him._

 

 

The bus roared to life and with a lurch pulled from the lot. He did not have the focus needed to plan out how long it would take for him to reach them. He could only focus on the swirling mass of rage within him. It wanted action, and he was holding it still. It wanted blood, and the only one bleeding was him. Killing the angels had sated it some. He felt their deaths, a thousand knives piercing his body.

It mattered not that they were torturing him. It mattered even less that he had been in pain. They only gave to him the suffering that he knew he had earned.  _And now Hannah._  He curled in on himself even more with the thought of them. The press of their hand on his arm and the way that their eyes looked on him with so much sorrow, so much concern. 

 _Hannah._  The name became a silent lamentation. His body shook with the worry, the ever present worry that everyone that he cared for would perish.  _Perhaps, angels were not meant to care so much. Father save them._  The final thought, the prayer came from desperation. He felt the rage bounding and throbbing about in him as he thought of so much death that had come from his hands.  _Save them please._ And he knew that he was praying for many, but really he was praying for just two. 

It was selfish maybe to pray to the Father. It was selfish maybe to pray for them, his greatest weakness. They kept asking,  _who are you?_  He knew the answer. He was Castiel, an angel of the Lord. But they were not asking that. They were asking him where he stood and who he stood with. And when he had thought about it before, he knew that he may have been an angel, but that he was not the kind of angel that his brethren were.

 _I’m Castiel. I’m an angel of the Lord._ He thought it again as the bus roared on through the night, hitting every pothole and cranny on the long, lonely stretch of road. Cas felt every one.  _So many miles to go, so many._  His mind swam over the distance. He could feel Dean far from him. His worries and longing a thread of connection dragging him home.  _Home._  Cas felt the shaking increase. HIs body fighting the rage.  _I’m Castiel, angel of the Lord._  The words a mantra in his head as the curse tried to tear from him even that little identity.

He felt cold as the bus lurched to a stop an hour later. He was the last passenger. The driver announced “Lebanon,” and Cas stumbled down the aisle and out of the bus. He was nowhere near the bunker. It would be some time before he could drag himself to the site. He found a bench and sat for a moment. Holding himself upright by a thread of effort.  _Dean. Home._  The thoughts came to him with the tug of worry that Dean was feeling. It had grown stronger over the last three hours. He had felt it through the torture even.  _Dean._

The blade slipped into him, and on a scream he could feel Dean an anchor keeping him from slipping away, releasing his hold on this thing that wasn’t even really living anymore.  _They could help me end this. They could help me._  He propelled himself from the bench and moved off toward the bunker, off toward home.

“I’m Castiel.”  _I’m an angel of the Lord._  He spoke the first aloud, needing to hear it, the quiet confirmation of self. They asked who he was. At times he did not know.  _Was he an angel when the grace was almost burnt out? Was he an angel when it wasn’t even his grace?_ He came to the dirt road and felt some relief in his tormented form as he was nearing the bunker.

“I’m Castiel.” He did not think of his form.  _Perhaps, I am not an angel._  The rage was cold and he felt the chaos of it in his limbs. They wanted to tear, to destroy. He pulled his arms to himself in a kind of hug.  _I’m an angel...I’m Castiel an angel._

Somehow it almost made him feel better. He was staking a claim on himself, who he was, and it mattered. Dean was close now. He could feel him, not so close as the bunker, but near enough. He came to the doorway of the bunker and entered through the opening that had not been fully repaired after the Stynes. “I’m Castiel, an angel.” He sounded weak as he spoke it. 

He stumbled down the stairs, barely catching himself at the bottom. In the distance there were books. He remembered the space looking like this before. There were other memories, the fists that rained down anger on his form. The eyes that looked on him with hatred. He quaked in his final steps past the books to the other end of the room. He felt himself slip down to the floor.

“I’m Castiel.” He coughed, a deep body wracking cough past lungs that didn’t need to breath, but something in him was pushing out the very air that had taken up residence there. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. The room was silent. He could feel the agony of seconds, minutes, and longer moments.  _Who am I? What am I?_  The rage tore through him. He could feel the blade pass through him. He could feel the eyes of his tormentors boring in on him. The threats that never became actions still lived on in his imagination. 

“I’m Castiel, I’m Castiel, I’m Castiel.” He whispered out the words over and over. He could not lose that bare sense of himself. Then he heard the prayer.  _Come on, Cas. Where are you?_  Cas closed his eyes to better concentrate on the words, to cling to them in his hour of need.  _Dean._ It was always Dean, the port that he would sail to, the safe harbor in a storm, the only home he had now. “I’m Cas.” He wished for his phone. He needed to tell him that he was home, that he needed him. He shook through another bout of tremors brought on by the curse.

Time passed, and he could hear them on the landing. They were home. Dean’s voice flowed out to him. Cas did not have much strength left. He whispered, “I’m Cas, angel of the Winchesters.” He filled his lungs with air, the air of home, the air that belonged to this place and to the Winchesters. Dean was drawing closer, and he could feel his worry, his concern. Past the rage and the curse, Cas felt Dean’s anchoring presence.

He closed his eyes and settled into the warmth of Dean’s affection pressed out to him in prayers over years and even now. He clung to the feelings that were for him and him alone. They would find him soon. For the moment, he would lay there and just wait for them, for the help that they would offer. He would lay there in the only home that ever felt like home. And if anyone ever asked him in the future what he was or which side he would choose, he’d say,  _I’m Cas, angel of the Winchesters._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos always appreciated.  You can also find me on Tumblr as [Spearywritesstuff](http://spearywritesstuff.tumblr.com/)


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